The turn of love

Near Asperen, The Netherlands, 1569

The rough stone of the castle wall scraped Dirk’s skin as he lowered himself hand over hand to the frozen moat below.

He tried to stand, his knees buckling, and forced himself to relax for a moment. He shivered as the cold North Sea air cut through his thin prison rags. The palace-turned-prison stood staunchly behind him, boasting of power and pride, of control and cruelty.

Almost one year since I last walked outside these walls, Dirk thought to himself. Almost a year since I’ve seen my Magda and the little ones.

The scene replayed itself in his mind as if it were yesterday: “Do not go to the meeting,” Magda begged him. “You know the duke has tightened up his search for Anabaptists. Phillip and Stephan can lead the service tonight.”

“Magda, what has come over you?” he asked, taking his wife gently by the shoulders and turning her to face him. “We are not to fear, but to be courageous and continue to serve our Lord day by day. It’s not like you to shrink from danger.”

She studied his face, as if to memorize it, then finally spoke. “Dirk, it is different this time. I have a bad feeling about tonight. Perhaps the Lord would have you stay at home and take care of your family instead of tempting the Spaniards to capture you. Oh, Dirk, I just know that if you step out that door tonight, you will never enter it again.”

Magda broke into quiet sobs and Dirk pulled her close. “Now, now, my dear. Do not speak such nonsense. I shall be fine. And if anything does happen, the Lord will care for you and the children.”

His last comment did not prove to be the comfort he had hoped, rather bringing with it more sobs. Dirk insisted, as firmly and gently as possible, that Magda calm down lest the children awaken. “No need to upset them,” he added. “Now dry your tears and let us have a word of prayer together before I leave.”

They knelt on the dirt floor of their tiny home and approached the throne of the Father, beseeching Him for protection and courage, but above all for His will to be done. That was a year ago.

The scene faded as Dirk slipped on the ice and nearly sat down. Somehow he managed to regain his balance. “I am coming home, Magda,” he whispered.

Doggedly he trudged over frozen fields in the direction of his home in Asperen, willing his legs to keep moving. A year on bread and water had weakened him considerably and time was not on his side; the sun prepared to rise above the late winter landscape and give him away.

And so it did. Just as the rays shone out to warm the land, a guard back at the prison palace discovered the rope of rags tied together, anchored to a stout iron hook beside the open window. “Guards, guards!” he yelled. “Prisoner has escaped. After him!”

His shouts were followed by running feet as two men joined him. They clattered across the drawbridge in pursuit, and one pointed and hollered, “There! Near the pond. He must not cross the pond.”

Dirk turned at the sound, and to his terror he saw the men running in his direction. “Lord, grant me strength,” he gasped. “And courage.”

He ran for the pond as fast as his bony legs would carry him. If he could but cross it, he would be safe, out of the Anabaptist hunters’ territory. The Hondegat lay before him, iced over still, but the ice was thinning.

Panting now, Dirk skated onto the pond, moving smoothly so as to not to cause cracks. Just a few more strides, he thought. The forward shore welcomed him to freedom, as behind him the guards reached the Hondegat.

One of them slid out onto the pond while the other two watched from the bank. “I have you now, heretic!” he yelled. “You will burn for this.”

Without a pause, Dirk closed the distance to the shore. Suddenly a whip cracked behind him and he winced, anticipating pain. Instead, he heard the anguished cry of the guard. The ice had snapped, giving way under the man’s heavier frame.

“Help me!” he cried, slipping into the ice-cold water. Dirk turned to see the man clawing desperately for handholds as the edges of the hole continued to break away.

For a moment, time stood still. There was no prisoner versus guard, no Anabaptist versus Mother Church, no right versus wrong. Dirk saw only a man in need, a man loved by Christ. And Dirk, as one of Christ’s ambassadors, knew he had made his choice when he became a believer: to love as Christ loved.

Without a second thought, he slid back across the ice to where the guard floundered. “Give me your hand,” he commanded, lying flat on the frozen pond and reaching out to his pursuer.

The desperate guard clasped the offered hand and hung on as Dirk pulled him to safety. The man lay panting, then stared up at Dirk. He squinted into the morning sun at the fugitive who had voluntarily become his saviour.

“Hold him, Felipe!” ordered the two men on shore. The guard got to his feet and stared at Dirk. Finally, shaking his head, he took hold of him. He led Dirk back across the Hondegat, back to prison – this time a small room with barred windows, at the top of a tall church tower. His legs locked in wooden stocks, Dirk awaited his inevitable fate. It was only a matter of weeks in coming.

“. . . Whereas Dirk Willems, born at Asperen, at present a prisoner, has confessed that at age fifteen he was rebaptized in Rotterdam, at the house of one Pieter Willems, and that he further, in Asperen, at his house, at diverse hours permitted several persons to be rebaptized, therefore, we the aforesaid judges do condemn the aforesaid Dirk Willems that he shall be executed by fire, until death ensues.”

“Heretic! Traitor! To the stake!” The townspeople raised the cry. The guard, Felipe, watched as the dangerous criminal of church and state, the one who had saved his life, was led past and chained to the stake. Felipe’s fellow guard set his torch to the wood piled high at the foot of the stake until it caught and crackled.

Felipe, unable to tear his eyes away, stared up at Dirk. The man returned his gaze with a look of such love that it cut to the marrow of his bones. From the prisoner’s parched lips came a song, drifting out across the watchers – a song of generations of martyrs, a song to be sung until the end of time:

“Dear Jesus, Thou Eternal God
For me Thy blood was shed, On
Calvary’s cross didst Thou die alone,
Thorns crowned Thy hallowed head.
All this Thou didst to save my soul,
Should I not then drink from this bowl
Of wrath? I come . . . to Thee . . .”

The voice grew raspy and finally died, as did the body, but Felipe could have sworn the man lived on. Ever after the ashes cooled, the presence of Dirk Willems and his Saviour remained.

And they remain today.

This fictionalized re-telling of Dirk Willems’ story (from Martyrs Mirror) is by Janice Dick, and forms the prologue to her book, Calm Before the Storm (© 2002 by Herald Press, Scottdale, PA 156830). Used by permission. Janice Dick is a member of Philadelphia MB Church, Watrous, Sask.

Illustration from Martyrs Mirror by Thieleman J. van Braght. Herald Press, Scottdale, PA 15683. Used by permission.